


Bronze Blaze

by Velma68



Series: Bibliophilia [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Silver Blaze, Bees & Beekeeping, Bibliophilia, Books, Case Fic, First Kiss, Horse Racing, Illustrated, M/M, Missing Episode (S2), Mystery, Photography, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, UST, Victoriana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velma68/pseuds/Velma68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes to read about bees. One day, the books bring him John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kromskop

The pilates class was the last straw. Insufferable, the loudspeaker shattering one’s absorption to prattle on about activities in the café or the nearby studio. The landmark bookshop in Hay-on-Wye had become too much of a tourist mecca for Sherlock Holmes’s taste, despite the occasional antiquarian treasures still to be found in remote corners.

“John!”

John Watson looked up from the tattered copy of an Agatha Christie novel he was scanning.

“Boring! Poirot was moderately clever, of course, but he could have stopped Franklin before the horse race in Doncaster. Ink stains, don’t you know. Come along.”

John released an even breath. “All right,” he said finally, “but you’ll wait while I buy these,” indicating the small stack of medical journals. He met Sherlock’s gaze firmly.

Two point seven minutes later, by Sherlock’s calculation, the pair was striding down a side street toward Arden Bookseller, a shop specializing in natural history, botany, and beekeeping that was this trip’s real destination. Sherlock kept in touch with the owner, Bernhard Bloodworth, who sometimes came across rare texts on poisonous plants and insects and apiculture. Sherlock loved bees.

Each spring, Sherlock made the trek to Hay-on-Wye—a book-lover’s paradise—to view Bloodworth’s finds. This year, only a fortnight after the trouble at Baskerville, Sherlock had invited John to join him. And Sherlock had booked just one room at the inn, as John discovered when they checked in. John still didn’t know what that meant.

“Bloodworth has made quite a splash with one of his recent acquisitions,” Sherlock said. “The book is _Bronze Blaze._ ”

“Bronze blaze? If that’s a chemical reaction, I hope you won’t see fit to try it.”

Sherlock gave a perfunctory grumble. “Bronze Blaze was called the horse of the century, an unbeaten Triple Crown winner. He sired a great line of thoroughbreds. Frankel is a descendent. You can safely bet on Frankel in the 2,000 Guineas this month, if you’re so inclined—he’s sure to win.”

“You follow . . . horse racing?” John stammered.

“Hardly. I endured manfully whilst Uncle Titus and Aunt Iphigenia nattered about horses and dogs.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Bronze Blaze was stolen near Dartmoor in 1892. The _Strand_ and newspapers across the country reported the theft, along with the horse’s curious return and triumph in the Wessex Cup. The attention ultimately paid handsomely in stud fees.”

Dartmoor. John’s brain stuttered to a stop. Sherlock had said, “I don't have friends. I've just got one.” Since the Hounds case, John had felt the boundaries between them shifting, an increased gentleness with subtle heat. But like Sherlock that night at Dartmoor, John felt nothing but doubt. He wanted to be sure.

Sherlock paused. “All right, John?”

“Yes, of course,” he bit out.

With a slight frown, Sherlock continued. “Frederic Eugene Ives was an American inventor of photographic technologies. He was working in London with an English collaborator in 1892. The theft of Bronze Blaze caught his attention—Ives was a racing fan and formidable wagerer—so he produced a series of color photographs of the horse. It was all a great secret, carried out under the nose of his collaborator—the first successful use of his Kromskop technology, which he patented in the U.S. in 1894. The Englishman never saw a penny.”

“Where does the book come into it?”

“The book Bloodworth purchased contains the only copies of the photographs. Ives had it bound for his own use—a kind of album. It’s said that he filled the pages with annotations describing his methods.”

“You see, the photos in the book are of course two-dimensional. But the Kromskop technology requires a viewer and triple negatives for three-dimensional color.” Sherlock looked impressed. “Ives figured out how to print the photos, and the quality was surpassing. He beat William Kurtz’s famous color still life—a washed-out shadow in comparison—by several months.”

They had stopped in front of Arden Bookseller, a narrow shop of at least two stories, with a glossy burgundy door and canvas canopy. The window held a striking display of nineteenth-century racing paraphernalia, including vintage racecards and runners lists, cartes de visite of thoroughbreds and jockeys in hand-colored silks, well-thumbed copies of _Sporting Gazette_ and _Racing Illustrated,_ several equine anatomy and physiology texts, a riding crop, and a small racing saddle.

Over it all hung a poster-sized photograph of a magnificent light chestnut thoroughbred with a white blaze. The horse’s amber coat rippled with vitality against a pasture of otherworldly emerald.

“Bronze Blaze,” Sherlock noted. The men stepped inside.

“Holmes! Come in, come in, and shut that door against the infernal humidity.”

Bernhard Bloodworth was not a young man, but he moved nimbly from behind the counter, fixing them with hazel eyes as sharp as a house sparrow’s. More faded than gray, his thinning brown hair was combed haphazardly from a high forehead. He wore his shabby trousers pulled high and cinched.

“Bloodworth. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson.”

“Dr. Watson.” Bloodworth missed nothing in his quick appraisal of John, finally fixing on the bag of journals in his hand. “I see that you’ve favored my giddy neighbor with your custom. The lunacy of imagining that fairy cakes improve the reading experience—or the books’ experience of being read. All those buttery fingers!” He shuddered and handed John a pair of cotton gloves. Sherlock pulled nitrile gloves from his coat pocket.

John chanced a look at Sherlock. He was beaming at the penetrating little man. John felt his own smile grow.

He took a moment to admire the meticulously organized shop, filled with books and curiosities. Dark wooden shelves stretched to the plaster ceiling and extended into the room, forming nooks for club chairs and reading desks. A large botany collection was close at hand. Toward the stairs, he saw an articulated cat skeleton among books and journals on the _Felidae_ family. The air smelled of newsprint and cotton, old ink and gum arabic, vellum and leather, dust and beeswax furniture polish.

Sherlock was in his element. He was tinkering with a device that reminded John of the stereopticon his gran had owned. He and Harry would slide the curled sepia stereoscope cards into the viewer to see in shaky 3-D genteel Englishmen touring the pyramids, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Colosseum.

“Dr. Watson, I trust Holmes told you about my recent purchase of Ives’s extraordinary book. I was fortunate to acquire it in a large lot from a biology professor’s estate.”

“Sins of the fathers, Bloodworth!” Sherlock interjected. “The book disappeared in the confusion of Ives’s relocation to the United States. His English collaborator had discovered his parallel line of research. Furious to be cut out, he stole the book. He hid it and ultimately passed it down to a grandson—the biologist—who never knew what he had. Obviously.”

Bloodworth merely smiled. “To the third and the fourth generation, you say, Holmes? I’m sure you are right.”

“Dr. Watson, Holmes appears eminently able to demonstrate my Kromskop. And perhaps you would like to see _Bronze Blaze_ —I’ve not shown it widely yet. I’ll bring it up from the vault.”

Sherlock had been adjusting the device’s mirrors and now fitted in red, green, and blue plates. “Bloodworth has slides of _Morpho anaxibia,_ John. Would you like to take the first look?”

John stepped to the counter and placed his eyes to the viewing lenses. He gasped. Before him, seemingly floating in the darkened wooden box, was a brilliant cobalt butterfly, wings tipped in black, with every vein standing out in relief. Behind him was a detective, warm and now pressed against John’s back, reaching around with both hands to direct the light source.

Sherlock, peering over John’s right shoulder, turned his head to speak in a low tone, nearly against John’s ear. “How is the color?”

Oh, Christ. The touching, surely this is more . . . right, John thought. Steady on.

Sherlock slotted his face in next to John’s with a satisfied hum, and John was done for. Composure shattered, he jerked from the lenses. Bloodworth was stepping into the room, carrying a book bound in fraying red cloth. His shrewd eyes met John’s, and John felt heat rising to the very tips of his ears.

He cleared his throat and slid away from the viewer. “Very true, Sherlock—dazzling, really.”

Bloodworth turned, centering the book on a velvet cradle mounted on one of the reading desks. _Bronze Blaze_ was rectangular and bound along the short edge. A carte de visite of the thoroughbred decorated the cloth cover: its motto read “Bronze Blaze, Wessex Cup Champion.” Along the spine was the title _Bronze Blaze._

As John and Sherlock joined him, Bloodworth explained, “The binding has seen better days, and there’s a bit of foxing just here. I’m having my regular conservator in before I begin to meet with potential buyers next week.”

Bloodworth raised the cover with a gloved finger, then began to turn the pages very slowly. Perhaps a dozen photographs—smaller than John had expected and printed on thick paper—filled the book, each mounted on a right-facing page. The colors were unfaded and rich, yet somehow fantastical. Tangible sunlight, thick like honey, pooled over the horse’s muscles. The verso pages were tightly packed with notations in ink and pencil: English and Latin, equations and diagrams, and long rows of numbers.

“This is fascinating, Bloodworth,” Sherlock said, with a finger tracing a series of numbers. “Have you been able to puzzle out any of it?”

“Only a very little. The notations appear to be lab notes, but it’s not easy going. The puzzle will have to wait for another day, and perhaps another owner.” Bloodworth gently closed the volume and moved toward the stairs. Sherlock returned to the Kromskop for a parting look at the butterfly, while John began to browse.

The shop owner reappeared after a few minutes. “Come whenever suits you tomorrow morning, Holmes, and we’ll sort through the volumes I’ve set aside for you. I expect to arrive quite early to research and catalogue some new acquisitions,” said Bloodworth. “Look about for as long as you like now, of course.” He began to pack away the Kromskop, wrapping each plate in tissue.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock held a slender Victorian volume on _Aconitum napellus,_ his reading for the evening. He joined Bloodworth at the rear of the store, and together they watched John puttering happily in the extensive bee culture section near the window. The fading sunlight settled on his olive parka; his hair shone like burnished bronze. He peered at tiny wax-sealed honey samples glowing in their glass jars, ran a gloved finger over an ancient hand-labeled collection of pinned bee specimens, then picked up a book from the display.

“Your friend . . . your _doctor”_ —Sherlock swallowed—“is at home among good books. Does he share your devotion to apiculture?”

“No. His reading focuses on anatomy, medicine, military history, and light fiction.”

“Hmm.” Bloodworth looked narrowly at Sherlock. “The guide he is holding is an excellent primer for a novice who may wish to join his friend in the bee yard.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s color was high, and his silver eyes followed John’s progress in the book. “Yes. Add that volume to my account as well, won’t you, Bloodworth?”

He was by John’s side in a moment. “Dinner, John? You’re to keep the book, with Bloodworth’s compliments.”

“Ah, cheers!” John said, as Bloodworth pursed his lips and waved them off.

Later, when they were fed and comfortably settled at the small fireside in their room, John said, “I know you’re thinking about the notations in Ives’s book. Tell me what you saw today.”

With a pleased hum, Sherlock said, “Some of the numerical annotations form a Fibonacci sequence.”

“Why? What could it have to do with photography?”

“I’m not sure.”

They sat quietly with their books for some time. Then Sherlock turned his head in the flickering firelight. “You know, John, I met Bloodworth when I was only 19. He was on a buying trip and visited my botany tutor. University was so dreadfully dull—the readings, the experiments, the lectures and tutorials. Bloodworth was not boring.”

John thought Sherlock might stop there, but he continued after a long pause. “I used to take the train to Hereford and hitch to Hay-on-Wye—when I had to get away. Bloodworth taught me a bit of analytical bibliography and how to tend his apiary. I helped in the shop when I could, sometimes even slept in the loft.”

Sherlock spoke very quietly. “I was more a drain on his resources than a customer for several years. I don’t know why he did it.”

John felt a warm pull in his chest. “Maybe you were not boring.”

They returned to their books.

John was several chapters into the beekeeping guide when he finally set it aside with a yawn. He cleaned his teeth in the en suite and pulled on pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He wondered if Sherlock meant to share the bed. Probably he would not sleep at all, John concluded. With a small sigh, he returned to the room and crawled into bed. He drifted away with a cobalt butterfly floating before his eyes.

John’s breathing was low and even. Sherlock curled against the back of his chair, eyes fixed on John’s relaxed face. He touched fingertips together over his lips as he stepped through a shiny burgundy door into his mind palace’s bee culture room. Dark shelving stretched high to the ceiling. Motes of dust drifted through golden air that smelled of beeswax and old paper. Sherlock moved aside a naturalist’s shadowbox arrayed with bee specimens to reveal a hidden compartment. In a nest of tissue, he arranged tricolored slides of John’s cobalt eyes reflecting tiny honey jars.

Ashen light filtered into the room. Sherlock’s phone was ringing. John jerked awake to find Sherlock on top of the covers fully clothed next to him, fumbling for the phone.

“Holmes. Please! You and Dr. Watson must come at once.” It was Bloodworth.

 _“Bronze Blaze_ is gone!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Sherlock story and first fiction of any kind in longer than I’d care to admit. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to [Ghislainem70](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70) for the patient encouragement. If you’re not already reading her WIP, “The Omega Sutra,” you’d best head there directly!


	2. Lifting Knife

The plan was going pear-shaped. Mick Duffy felt it with his horse sense, honed by a childhood spent at training barns and racetracks. He couldn’t yet see it, but soon the balance would tip past recovery. The footing would fail, the jockey tumble. He slipped from the dim picnic table near Memorial Square into the night as police sirens began to sound.

***

The conservator drew in a quick, shaky breath as he adjusted his headlamp. Wiping his sleeve over the grubby picnic table, he arranged the precious book, pulled a small lifting knife from his pocket, and set to work.

No. His hand shook.

No. This operation was supposed to be quick, a quarter-hour at most to remove the thirteen photographs Bloodworth had described. The photographs were superb, but he could not spare a moment to admire them. They were quite thick and rigid—an interesting property of the novel printing process, his mind restlessly noted—and immovably mounted, as he now saw, on the book’s recto pages. He could not lift them without damaging either the photographs or the pages below.

The man would be here in forty-five minutes to the collect the book. His chest felt tight. He needed a strong solvent and good knives, and there was no time for a trip to his workshop in Hereford. Think.

He would go to Simpson’s shop. Simpson had a range of chemicals and excellent knives, a custom set with burr olivewood handles that he displayed on his workbench to impress passing tourists.

A craft bookmaker known for reusing old engravings and photographs in his elegantly bound books, Frederick Simpson had called him in just this evening to consult on a bleaching project. The conservator had a key to Simpson’s shop—of course he did. After more than twenty years in business in Herefordshire, he had worked for nearly every bookseller in Hay-on-Wye and had keys to many. Pocketing his headlamp, he set off at a trot.

Simpson’s shop was fronted with windows from top to bottom, with a brass handrail at waist level. In the busy summer season, gawpers sometimes stood three deep watching the beefy showman at work. The conservator silently unlocked the glass door and slid inside. In the thin light from the street, he moved behind the workbench and, tucking the book under his arm, quickly filled his hands with supplies: large lifting and paring knives from Simpson’s array, a delicate brush, a vial of solvent, and a clean blue rag.

He needed good light. By design, every corner of the shop was visible from the pavement. He would be exposed while he worked. Turning his back to the street, he knelt and spread the book and materials under the open workbench to contain his lamp’s light. With a wheezing breath, he began round two.

Progress was slow. He leaned close as he deftly stroked the brush under the third photograph and applied the knife.

It was 12:25. He swayed over the four drying photographs. He needs . . . to get somewhere. Needs more time.

The conservator staggered to his feet, tugging off the headlamp. He laid the book on the workbench with a little pat, depositing the vivid photos alongside it in a loose stack. His foot caught in the dark, splashing the remaining solvent over the brush and knives. Falling to his knees, he picked up the Peachey paring knife with one hand, clutching the rag and ineffectually dabbing at the spill with the other.

He got to his feet and dragged heavy eyes over the . . . things down there. And the very important book. The man would give him more time. He stumbled out the unlocked door, blending into a lively crowd just issuing from the pubs as they closed for the night. He rounded the corner before he fell.

***

Mick texted. He texted again. He waited—too long. It was time and past time to scrub this. Merciful feck, there was an answer:

_Target missing. Find book. Arden. Do not be seen._

He thought for a long moment, then reluctantly turned his steps toward Arden Bookseller.

Foot traffic had died away hours ago. The small street was deserted. Mick hugged the wall under Arden’s canopy and considered the situation. Inside, all was dark. He had no lock-picking tools, and breaking the shop window—well, he wouldn’t touch that with a bargepole. Anyhow, the place surely had an alarm, and instructions from the top had been clear against attracting attention.

He’d met the big boss for the first time only this week. For three months, he had been a traveling man, exerting a bit of pressure where it was needed, looking for weak spots and reporting back to London. He kept a bedsit, but there was little else in the city for him. Tonight’s job was meant to be a quick bargain, over before you can say knife. Now it was a right royal mess. He pulled a small torch from his pocket. As he played it over the lock, he saw to his surprise that the door was slightly ajar. He slowly, very gently, pulled it open. He was in.

He crouched in the center of the room and shone the light from floor to ceiling. Holy hell, it was a mad jumble, packed to the rafters with books and all manner of rubbish. “Find book,” he said! Mick wasn’t sure the boss understood what he was asking. He would start in the cellar, he decided.

More than an hour later, he had carefully checked all the books in the unlocked vault, ignoring the loose papers. It was not there. He climbed the stairs, heading for the top of the store. He would work his way down.

The third story was a narrow loft, fitted out as an office with a desk and files, sofa bed, small table, and kettle. He sifted through the desk, removing each drawer, then turned to the file cabinets and sofa. No book. The second level was larger; it would require a strategy. Training his torch on the small sign by the stairs, he headed for veterinary science. When first light began to color the high room, Mick moved toward the stairs. It was already too late.

“Bloodworth, keep calm,” a deep voice commanded. “Tell us precisely what you saw when you approached the door.” Three men stood on the pavement in urgent conversation. Mick should have run hours ago.

He slipped soundlessly across the room and bolted through the open door. The lanky toff was already breaking into a run just a few steps behind. In an instant, the small man squared his stance like a soldier, and all were running, running, making for Mick’s car, leaving the older man behind. Only another block.

Bloody hell, the bloke in the long coat was not letting up. Mick heard his own feet beat a cantering rhythm. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

“Oi! He dropped something!!” The blond man fell back as he stooped to retrieve the photo card marked with numbers. Mick didn’t pause. Not five steps ahead of the long-legged git, he dove into the car and snapped the lock. Opening up the throttle, he squealed into the road, swerved once to dislodge the determined man, and sped away.

Sherlock rolled across the bonnet, dropping hard onto his right shoulder and ribs on the side of the road. He held up his head, with his eyes steady on the car’s rear plate. Two beats later, John was upon him. He tucked the card into his back pocket without sparing it a glance and rolled Sherlock to his back. His right hand cradled Sherlock’s skull, and the left traveled across his chest and up and down his torso checking for broken ribs. His eyes quickly flicked from Sherlock’s right pupil to his left and back again.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Be quiet.” John curled both hands along Sherlock’s pale throat and cautiously rolled his head to the right and to the left.

Sherlock shivered as John's hands lingered on his skin. “John?”

John was not meeting his eyes.

“We need to get back to Bloodworth now.”

John nodded.

“I’m fine,” he added gently.

John sat back on his heels, breathing shallowly, and blinked hard twice. He stepped back and let Sherlock rise. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small card. He passed it to Sherlock, and they stood shoulder to shoulder looking down at a carte de visite—a black-and-white souvenir photo of Bronze Blaze. It looked like the one on the cover of Ives’s book, but this copy had a string of penciled numbers in the margin: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144.

“It’s the beginning of the Fibonacci sequence. This matches some of the annotations in Ives’s book.” Their eyes met. They started to walk.

Mick was speeding along the A438. He reckoned the failed meeting, the missing man, police sirens, the chase. Weighed the fury of the man in London. He knew a lad at the racecourse in Cork. It was time to get lost. When he pulled into Hereford, he left the car unlocked with the key in the ignition. He tossed his phone into the first bin he passed as he walked briskly toward the train station.

Sherlock dusted off and straightened his coat as the two men approached Arden Bookseller. Bloodworth was standing outside the shop with the constable, a hearty-looking ginger.

“Holmes! Dr. Watson! Where is the thief?”

“Escaped by car,” Sherlock acknowledged, “but we have his plate number.” Pulling a pad from his coat pocket, he jotted it down and handed it to the constable.

“Constable Gregor, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are visiting from London this weekend. I hope you will allow them to help.”

“Holmes, Dr. Watson, Deputy Chief Constable Evelyn Gregor is investigating the case—a stroke of luck. Constable Gregor is in charge of criminal justice for the Dyfed-Powys Police . . . and an excellent gardener, I happen to know.” Bloodworth smiled.

John nodded at her, while Sherlock stood by impatiently, still holding the carte de visite.

“Mr. Bloodworth and I have already walked through the scene. Both the vault and the front door were unlocked. Little else seems to have been disturbed. It is a clean burglary,” she observed. She turned to Bloodworth. “Is there anyone known to you who might want to steal _Bronze Blaze?_ Anyone with a grudge against you or the store?”

Bloodworth heaved a deep sigh. “The book is priceless, Constable—that might well be enough motivation.” He paused.

“But there is Frederick Simpson. We argued last night. After you two left, Holmes, he came to the shop and asked to see _Bronze Blaze._ I didn’t like to show it to him—not when I know him for what he is. He bought several rare eighteenth-century botanical works from me before I discovered he was mutilating them, dismantling them for the engravings.”

“But I could understand his curiosity about _Bronze Blaze._ The man does have a fine eye for color.” He continued, “When I brought out the book, he had the audacity to ask to buy two individual photographs. We parted . . . on poor terms. I stayed for another hour, then locked the shop at 9:00.”

Constable Gregor was taking notes. “We should continue the interview inside, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bloodworth. Is there a place we can sit?”

“Of course.” He led the way upstairs. “I’ll make tea. But first I need to call my conservator, James Straker, to cancel our appointment. I expect him at 8:00 to begin work on _Bronze Blaze._ ”

The constable’s eyes widened. “James Straker was murdered last night.”


	3. Olivewood

“I need to see the body.”

“Hmm.” Constable Gregor looked at Sherlock with mild interest. “Just like that, do you think?”

John laid a cautioning hand on Sherlock’s arm. She continued, “I know who you two are, of course, and what you get up to for New Scotland Yard. I even read Dr. Watson’s blog—we all do. But I won’t give you access to my investigations or the morgue just because you say so.”

With a resentful grumble, Sherlock spat out, “Why don’t you call Lestrade? Surely he outranks you.”

She chuckled. “No. I report to this force’s chief constable, and I am personally heading both the murder and break-in investigations. Which, I would point out, are entirely unrelated, as far as we know.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows flew up. “Are you a thoroughgoing id—” John interrupted with a meaningful glare at the stroppy detective, “He means, we want to do everything we can to help Mr. Bloodworth.”

The constable slanted a sympathetic look at John. “As it happens, I’ve met Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was in Powys last year to give a workshop on interrogation techniques. Good man—even if he sometimes looks a fool in your blog, Dr. Watson. It might be worth the call, eh?” She winked as she walked toward the stairs, pulling a phone from her pocket.

Constable Gregor returned five minutes later with a sly smile crossing her freckled face. “Inspector Lestrade recommended that I bar Mr. Holmes from the investigations and morgue.” Sherlock was vibrating with outrage. “Unless Dr. Watson is present.”

John grinned. “I’m convinced that is prudent advice, Constable,” Bloodworth pronounced, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock said, waving vaguely with elegant fingers. “Do let’s go.”

The constable settled comfortably on the sofa. “I appreciate your sense of urgency, Mr. Holmes, but right now, I am interviewing the victim of a burglary. Mr. Bloodworth, would tea be too much trouble? It was a long night. Milk no sugar for me, please.” As Sherlock fell back in his seat with a defeated groan, John eyed the constable with palpable respect.

With a hot cup of tea in hand, Constable Gregor began to walk through the events of the past twelve hours. Sherlock and John left Arden at 7:00 p.m. on Friday. Frederick Simpson came into the shop at 7:30. After he and Bloodworth spoke for several minutes, he waited upstairs while Bloodworth fetched the book from the locked vault.

“There’s no way he could have watched you open the vault?” the constable asked.

“Oh, no, certainly not. I could hear him moving around the botany section on the ground floor while I was down below.” Bloodworth described the angry exchange over the book. “At about 8:00, I asked him to leave. No one came in after that. I armed the vault when I replaced _Bronze Blaze._ I locked the door and set the exterior alarm when I left for home at 9:00.”

Sherlock jumped in. “Bloodworth, are you quite sure you locked both doors and set the alarms?”

“I asked myself that very thing this morning, Holmes,” Bloodworth admitted. “But I believe so.”

“May I ask the alarm codes?”

He looked a bit shamefaced. “1-4-5-5 for both doors.”

“Bloodworth! In the Town of Books?” Sherlock scoffed. John and the constable exchanged puzzled looks. “The Gutenberg Bible’s year of publication. Do keep up.”

“What about door keys?” Bloodworth had recently upgraded the doorknob and bolt. Besides his own key, he had given out three copies—to a cleaning service, Straker, and a Camberwell conservation student who works summers.

“We’ll track those down,” Constable Gregor said, jotting down notes. Bloodworth worried the handle of his empty teacup as he described creeping into the unlocked shop at dawn to confirm the loss of the book. Sherlock and John arrived minutes later. Sherlock quickly sketched the remainder of the story.

“The odd thing is,” John concluded, “the bloke we chased wasn’t carrying anything—no bag or backpack.”

“Quite so, John.” Sherlock sent an approving glance his way. “I don’t believe he had the book. But he did drop this.” Sherlock handed Bloodworth the carte de visite.  

“Taken from your store?” the constable asked.

Bloodworth examined it closely. “No. This carte is a full view of the horse, like the one on the cover of Ives’s book. I have only one carte de visite of Bronze Blaze, a profile of his head—it’s in the window display, which was undisturbed this morning. And I have never seen a carte marked in this way.”

She looked doubtfully at the card, thinking. “We’ll need to search the store, Mr. Bloodworth. It’s possible you interrupted the burglary, and the book is still here.” A glimmer of hope crossed Bloodworth’s face. She said kindly, “Perhaps you’d like to begin searching. I gather you worked with Mr. Straker for many years. What I have here may be painful for you.” She pulled out her phone and began to flip through photographs. In an instant, Sherlock had vaulted the sofa to peer over her shoulder. John slid closer.

James Straker was lying on his back on a gritty stretch of pavement. His khaki trousers were gashed and bloodied on the right thigh. His right hand was clutching a flat, angled knife. To his left was a crumpled blue cloth.

Sherlock pointed at a streak of blood near the cloth. “He was flipped.”

“Yes. A pub owner found Straker outside his establishment at 12:45 when the crowd thinned. He turned him over, thinking he’d had a few too many. The cloth was under the body. It smells strongly of some chemical—maybe held to his face while he tried to fight back with the knife.”

“The injury on his leg could be self-inflicted, probably when he fell,” John said, squinting. “That’s an unusual knife.”

The constable flicked forward to a close shot of the knife by a ruler showing 18 cm. The knife had a light-grained, highly polished handle and a wide blade engraved with the word “Peachey.” Sherlock sought Bloodworth’s eyes. “Bloodworth. This is vital. Will you look at the knife?” Bloodworth nodded and accepted the phone.

He drew a sharp breath. “This is an English-style paring knife, a bookbinding tool made by Jeff Peachey—custom, very exclusive. It’s Simpson’s.”

Twenty minutes later, John was taking in spectacular Wye Valley views as they slipped past Sherlock’s equally spectacular profile. Sherlock was thinking. His head was tipped back and balanced on top of the seat cushion, with his face a mere handspan from the car’s ceiling. For the first ten minutes of the drive, he had clenched and rubbed his hands over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose like a cat kneading its paws. At present, his long fingers were threaded through the curls on his temples, gently tugging. John found this endearing. And now John was thinking. When did he begin to find Sherlock Holmes endearing, to be endeared?

They were riding in Constable Gregor’s panda car. After considerable cajoling, Sherlock had joined John in the back, while Bloodworth rode next to the constable. She would make a good soldier, John thought. Although she had surely not slept for more than twenty-four hours, she was nonchalantly driving with one hand while alternating between the police radio and phone calls on a headset. In a few minutes, they would be at Hereford County Hospital. Constable Gregor had arranged for the evidence found with Straker to be delivered to the morgue. Her second in command was on his way to pick up Simpson for questioning.

The constable glanced at her phone as they walked through the hospital’s sliding doors. “Ten minutes until the evidence arrives. This way—we’ve time for breakfast.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock huffed, as he paused in front of a hospital map. “I’m going to see the body.”

She shot off a text. “Mr. Holmes, do I need to remind you that you’re barred from the morgue unless escorted by Dr. Watson? If I’m not mistaken, Dr. Watson is about to enjoy a scone.” She moved with determination toward the sound of clattering dishes and conversation floating down the hall.

Inside the sunny dining room, Bloodworth claimed a table and went looking for coffee. Sherlock observed that John and the constable were now on first-name terms, chatting cheerfully about Lestrade and the blog as they moved through the cafeteria line. Hateful, how he looked into her broad face, engrossed. He was laughing, his blue eyes twinkling as the exquisite crow’s feet earned in Afghanistan creased. Sherlock shook himself. He was in the midst of a case—Bloodworth’s case—with a dead body to examine. What did it mean that Sherlock would rather examine John Watson’s fascinating, weathered face?

“Come on, Sherlock. This tea is for you, and here’s a doughnut,” John said, ushering Sherlock to the table. John knew when to appeal to Sherlock’s sweet tooth. Sherlock sat morosely nibbling his doughnut as the others discussed Straker’s successful conservation and restoration business. The constable’s phone pinged. “The evidence is downstairs in the morgue. Shall we?”

John spotted an officer laying out the evidence in a small conference room as they passed through the morgue’s double doors. After a few quiet words with Constable Gregor, the officer left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. She passed around a box of nitrile gloves, and they moved toward the table. The paring knife was off to one side, along with a blue rag in a resealable plastic bag. Arranged in a neat grid were the contents of Straker’s pockets: paper money and a driving license in a clip, a stack of loose receipts, a fountain pen, an inhaler, a headlamp, and a phone.

“Where are his keys?” Sherlock demanded. “Surely he was carrying a large ring of keys. To hear Bloodworth tell it, the man held keys to half the shops in Hay-on-Wye.”

Constable Gregor confirmed that no keys had been found with the body. She was taking notes. Sherlock picked up the receipts and began to flip through them. “I’ll need copies of these.” Bloodworth handled the paring knife with obvious skill, while John scrutinized the inhaler. “This is an ipratropium inhaler. Straker must have suffered from acute asthma."

Sherlock quirked a small smile at him. He flicked through the cash, screwed open the barrel of the fountain pen to peer at the ink cartridge, and turned the headlamp on and off. He picked up the phone and scrolled through the menu of apps, investigating a few. “He missed a call just before the body was discovered,” Constable Gregor said, “and two more calls from an unidentified number came in after we arrived. The final call was at 3:25 a.m. We were not able to get a fix on the number.”

The constable reached for the plastic bag holding the blue cloth. As she opened it, an unusual sweet odor wafted out. John could tell that Sherlock’s mind was working furiously as he sniffed. “Can you identify it, Bloodworth?” he barked. “I’ve caught traces of that smell in a few of the local bookshops.”

“Seal the bag, Constable,” Bloodworth said immediately, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “That cloying tang is bloody hard to get out of a room. It is toluene.”

“What is it used for?” Constable Gregor asked.

“It’s a solvent used in bookbinding and conservation. Toluene is first-rate for dissolving strong adhesives, but it has to be applied with an expert hand. I’ve used it only a few times myself.”

John jumped in. “Toluene is the aromatic hydrocarbon that inhalant users are trying to concentrate when they sniff glue or paint. If this is undiluted, it’s potent stuff.” Sherlock was staring greedily at John’s mouth as he spoke. Maybe the toluene was getting to him, John thought.

“Could it have killed him, John?” the constable asked.

“Absolutely. Toluene depresses respiration. Symptoms start with ataxia—the victim acts dizzy or drunk—and with more exposure, he experiences tremors and ultimately death. If Straker had severe asthma, the chemical’s effects could be amplified.” Sherlock sat down heavily, darkened eyes locked on John. “Actually, I’d feel better if we ventilated this room,” John concluded weakly.

Constable Gregor threw open the door, speaking briefly with the officer on guard outside. Sherlock had time to duck into his mind morgue—orderly and white like the laboratory at St. Bart’s—to deposit in a pathology sample drawer John’s small lips forming the words “aromatic hydrocarbon” and “ataxia.” He would retrieve them later for dissection. The officer returned with a fan.

“John, I’ve arranged for you to examine the body with Dr. Stein, one of the hospital’s pathologists—Mr. Holmes, too, of course. Mr. Bloodworth?” Bloodworth shook his head slightly but decidedly. “Very well. We’ll wait here. Officer, you can remove the evidence.”

John and Sherlock met Dr. Stein, a genial young man with thinning hair, near a dissection table in the postmortem room. The body had already been photographed and examined externally; the autopsy was scheduled for the next day. John found no surprises: there was some evidence of bruising on the knees, probably from a fall to the pavement, and the expected gash on the right thigh. The cut, which was moderately deep and about 11 cm long, did not cross the femoral artery. While bloody and undoubtedly painful, it did not cause or contribute to Straker’s death.

The sweet chemical smell lingered about the body. Sherlock huffed and sniffed strenuously around Straker’s nose and mouth and then down his body. Dr. Stein looked alarmed. “No concentration of the odor,” Sherlock explained. He continued his examination for several more minutes, viewing both the front and back of the body, before he was content to leave Dr. Stein to it, with John’s thanks.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as they scrubbed. “We need to search Arden from top to bottom, John.”

“Do you think the book is there?”

“No, but we have to rule it out.”

Seven hours later, it was time for a meal. They had been over every inch of Arden Bookseller, with John and Bloodworth moving methodically through the vault and then along each shelf and surface, scanning for the red cloth binding. Sherlock had probed the store’s cabinets, vents, clefts, and hidey-holes—most unknown even to Bloodworth—whirling from the top rungs of Arden’s library ladders into an army crawl along its waxed plank floors. _Bronze Blaze_ was nowhere in the shop.

Now they were standing around the sales counter eating Chinese takeaway. John was tucking into some creditable beef Szechuan, while Sherlock worked on a second prawn cracker. Sherlock tracked John’s gaze with a slight tilt of his head to the Kromskop packed away under the counter.

Bloodworth was visibly downcast, picking at his order of chicken green pepper in black bean sauce. Swallowing the last of his toast, Sherlock said firmly, “We will find it, Bloodworth.”

The phone on the counter rang. “Arden Bookseller. Yes? Ah, Constable Gregor.” Bloodworth clicked on the speakerphone, and the constable’s voice crackled around them.

 _. . . questioning this morning and in a second session this afternoon. Mr. Simpson denies any involvement in Mr. Straker’s death or the theft of the book. He told my officer that Mr. Straker was at work in his shop early last evening; he left at 7:15. Mr. Simpson locked up and then visited Arden before driving home. He returned to his shop alone at 1:00 a.m. to check on the progress of some papers he is bleaching. He claims he observed nothing unusual in the shop or the street. We questioned Mr. Simpson’s wife separately. She says that he went out around midnight, but she was sleeping, so can’t be sure of the precise time. By 2:00 a.m., he was home—where we picked him up this morning._ _We have a warrant to search Simpson’s shop. Mr. Simpson is along for the ride. Will you join us there?_

“Thank you, Constable. We’ll meet you in a few minutes.” The three men binned the remains of the Chinese and hurried toward Simpson’s shop.

When they arrived, two officers were hustling Simpson through the shop’s glass door. Frederick Simpson was a bluff, red-faced man—and not a happy one, John noticed. Constable Gregor stepped out to meet them. She pointed to a nearby junction. “Straker’s body was found around that corner, not half a block up.” Sherlock set off at a jog.

“Constable, we searched Arden from stem to stern,” Bloodworth said. _“Bronze Blaze_ is not in my shop.”

She looked at him sympathetically. “I’m afraid we hit a bit of a dead end ourselves. We tracked down the plate number Mr. Holmes provided. The car was hired in London. We found it this morning, quite muddy and abandoned in Gloucester.”

Sherlock was rounding the corner already, looking annoyed. “Nothing left to see there.” Without breaking his stride, he swept into Simpson’s shop. The shop, now crowded with the new arrivals, smelled strongly of bleach. Pale evening sun was filtering through the bank of windows, lighting the tidy workbench and falling in patches on the clean-swept floor.

Water was dribbling in a low sink where Simpson was at work, flanked by the officers. He spun toward them, holding what looked like a large wad of wet cloth. “Do you know what this is?” he shouted. “This is £950 of irreplaceable botanical engravings, destroyed by overbleaching!”

Small gobs of spittle flew from his mouth. “You, Bloodworth—you are responsible for all of this. You set the police on me!” He flung the cottony mess into the sink, and suddenly slumped as if his strings had been cut. “And why? Because I am willing to sell the collectors what they want: beautiful pictures in elegant new bindings.”

John could feel Bloodworth trembling with indignation next to him. “You fancy yourself an artist, Simpson, but you overreach. You plunder the works of geniuses—legacies that are ours for only a few years, to preserve and pass on—and annihilate them for a few pounds. You excise the past as you slash apart books. You are contemptible.” John was gently turning the furious man when Simpson snarled, “Maybe you made off with your own book!”

The intransigent bookmen stood at the poles of Hay-on-Wye’s trade in old books, as Constable Gregor understood. She said quietly, “Officer Hartwick, please take Mr. Bloodworth outside and wait with him.” Turning to Simpson, she simply commanded, “Sit,” pointing to a chair in the corner. The second officer took his position at Simpson’s elbow.

Sherlock’s gray eyes followed Bloodworth with concern, but he joined Constable Gregor near the workbench to begin their search. The constable was already focused on the impressive collection of knives displayed in blocks on Simpson’s bench. The tools had distinctive matching handles of a light-toned wood marked with swirling figures.

“Mr. Simpson, these knives are beautiful. What kind of wood is this?”

“Burr olivewood, designed for me by Jeff Peachey,” he responded smugly.

Sherlock’s finger landed on an empty slot. Catching the constable’s eye, he inclined his head at the slot. They shouldered together, closing off Simpson’s view. Constable Gregor lifted the knives flanking the empty slot. Both were wide, flat knives with angled tips, a bit smaller than the one found with Straker.

Stepping back only slightly, she began to slide open the workbench’s narrow drawers. The first drawer was filled with gum erasers and small brushes. From the second spilled dozens of blue cotton rags.

Sherlock rested a hand on her forearm. He lifted one finger toward a large set of keys tossed negligently near the base of one of the knife blocks. The ring bore a leather tab monogrammed “S.”

Sherlock and the constable spun in unison to face Simpson. Sherlock held up the keys looped on his index finger. “Are these yours?”

“My keys are on that ring,” Simpson coolly replied.

“What does this key open, then?” Simpson looked away. “How about this one? Ah, I see Bloodworth’s key here. Do you own this key ring, Mr. Simpson?”

Simpson finally met his piercing gaze. “No. No, I don’t. It’s Straker’s. He must have forgotten it when he was here yesterday. I didn’t notice!”

With that, Constable Gregor stepped forward and snapped handcuffs on Frederick Simpson.


	4. 1455

Evelyn Gregor stretched in her snug bed. After arresting Simpson on suspicion of homicide last night, she had managed a few precious hours of sleep. She would need them. In forty-five minutes, she was meeting Bernhard Bloodworth to review his search of the shop and the case thus far. Sherlock Holmes and his affable blogger John Watson would be joining them for the interview. Holmes was brilliant, with a flair that she quite liked, but he was hardly a walk in the park. She wished she knew how John kept him in line.

With one arm over her eyes, she mused. All of the evidence against Simpson was circumstantial—worryingly so—but the burglary case was especially thin, so shaky that she had not mentioned the break-in in the formal charges. Yet _Bronze Blaze_ was the only plausible reason for Simpson to murder Straker. It was the motive—and they still had no earthly idea where the book was. Scrubbing a hand through her tangled red hair, she groaned and headed for the bath.

***

Sherlock had been silent this morning. When they returned late last night, he had exchanged a few quiet words with the innkeeper, extending their stay by one night—and evidently ordered coffee and toast for the morning. It had just arrived. John was fresh from the shower, pulling on a slate blue shirt and jeans. Already immaculately dressed, Sherlock sat deep in the larger of the two armchairs, staring into the cold fireplace. He absently accepted his coffee, then unfolded gracefully and immediately set it aside.

“Do you trust me, John?” His dark voice was tempered, but the words filled John’s ears to buzzing. Setting down his cup, John swallowed and turned to face him.

He was standing half a step too close. John did not shift. He studied Sherlock and tried to comprehend the question. He finally abandoned the effort as a bad job. “Yes.” It was simple; it was true.

“I am going to London today. I need you to stay here with Bloodworth. I will be back tonight.”

When John stiffened, his protest already forming, Sherlock reached out and cupped his shoulder—and somehow they were standing chest to chest with the barest space between communicating heat. Sherlock’s mouth fit as if by design at John’s right ear, and low words rushed out.

“Don’t say no. Bloodworth is afraid. He may be in danger—I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure yet—so one of us must stay. I want you to protect him, distract him. It’s Sunday; the shop will be closed. Go with him to his bee yard. Let him teach you. I want you to see it. I want to show it to you myself; I love it there. I want him to know you. I need you here to receive the autopsy results. Please stay here. Don’t say no.”

John was dizzy with it. “Will you be in danger?” He had to know. His left hand rose like a butterfly and landed on Sherlock’s hip.

“I’ll be at the Diogenes Club almost the whole day. Mycroft is the last person I want to involve, but I will call on him to safeguard Bloodworth. I would do the same for only a few others: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. And you, John.”

“All right.”

John felt Sherlock’s lips brush against the thin skin of his temple. It might have been accidental. He leaned into the warm breath. Then it was over—Sherlock was picking up his coffee, drinking, and moving toward the door.

Inwardly, Sherlock was exulting. John smelled of the inn’s lavender honey soap, with tempting deeper notes: Earl Grey tea, lanolin, gun oil, and rain on warm pavement. He had not pulled away. A tiny cry had escaped his lips. Closest analogous sounds: rusted hinge, Montague Street; startled vole. A whirling Catherine wheel sent off technicolor flares above the courtyard of the festal mind palace.

John pocketed his beekeeping guide as the two set out for Arden Bookseller.

***

“But where is the book?” Sherlock growled. “Do you even have a theory about how Simpson is involved?”

“I have a theory. It’s a working theory”—Sherlock snorted—“but it’s enough to keep Simpson in custody. For now,” she added pointedly. Clearing her throat, Constable Gregor gave Sherlock Holmes a guided tour of the police’s version of events.

_James Straker entered Frederick Simpson’s shop at 6:30 p.m. Friday. Simpson called him in to consult on bleach concentration and timing for a project he planned to begin that evening. Straker did not leave Simpson’s shop at 7:15, as Simpson later claimed—he stayed on, tending the bleach mixture while Simpson paid his visit to Arden. The encounter with Mr. Bloodworth infuriated Simpson. While walking back to continue work with Straker, a solution came to him: he would get the valuable photos and humiliate Bloodworth at one stroke. Simpson kept Straker busy with the bleach and some other projects around the shop. Meanwhile, he went home to establish an alibi with his wife, staying with her until she fell asleep._

_When the pubs closed at 12:30, Simpson was back at his shop and made his move, intending to drug Straker with toluene on a rag, steal his keys, and send him out the door apparently intoxicated. Instead, Straker grabbed a knife from the bench and fought back, and the situation escalated. Straker finally became befuddled with the cloth held to his face, and Simpson was able to walk him outside. The struggle took too long for poor Straker, however—he stumbled around the corner and died. Simpson took the keys to Arden, where he stole the book, then returned to his shop to set it to rights—forgetting the key ring. He was home by 2:00 a.m._

_The man who ran from Arden on Saturday morning was an opportunist who saw the open door. He picked up the carte de visite inside. It is evidently Mr. Bloodworth’s—one of many similar ones in the window—and it’s an understandable oversight that he would not recognize it._

“I assume I don’t have to tell you that your story is full of holes. A pivotal one: You. Cannot. Account. For the book.” Sherlock spun away, his very coattails expressing derision. He halted suddenly, facing the shop’s front window.

“Ah. I see my ride is here.” Outside stood one of Mycroft’s sleek black sedans. “I’ll be in London today, Constable—back tonight. John will stay with Bloodworth to receive the autopsy results when they’re ready. I do hope you’ll be more forward with the investigation by the time I return.”

Constable Gregor blinked. “I’m surprised to see you abandon your friend’s case so suddenly,” she said evenly. “We’ll continue our search for the book, of course, starting with Simpson’s house. Is there anything else you think I should consider?”

“The strange incident with the alarm that night.”

“The alarm didn’t go off that night.”

“That was the strange incident.”

Bloodworth and John walked Sherlock to the door. “I know you’re up to something, Holmes. What is it?”

“I can’t tell you right now, Bloodworth, but I hope to have news tonight. Please stay with John. Perhaps you can put him to work on spring chores in the apiary.”

“Hmm, could do.” Very quietly, he added, “No book is worth more than your safety, my boy. Remember that.” He joined the constable at the rear of the store to continue the interview.

John held the door for Sherlock, and they stepped outside. It was a brilliant spring morning. “I would rather go with you,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s pale eyes.

“I know. I . . . Thank you for trusting me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He touched a thumb to John’s jaw, fleetingly, and slipped into the car.

Bloodworth lived in a tidy, book-filled cottage outside Hay-on-Wye. The flowering fields adjoining his back garden ran into long views of the Wye Valley, rolling green and blue to the horizon. John sat in the kitchen admiring the scene, while Bloodworth tended the kettle. Taking pride of place on the dining table was an impressive Victorian tome, well-thumbed: _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen._ On balance, John decided, he preferred his straightforward, contemporary guide.

After tea, Platen—a plump tortoiseshell cat—led the way to Bloodworth’s apiary. Around them spread a riot of spiky red flowers. John bent to pick one and examined it. “That’s _Trifolium_ _incarnatum,_ crimson clover: spring fodder for the bees. I’ll have a glut of clover honey before long, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, won’t you call me John?”

“Thank you, Watson—of course.” Bloodworth’s tawny eyes looked merry. “And you must call me Bloodworth. My first name died with my mother.” He fastened his protective clothing, handing a second set to John. John pulled on the white coverall, veil, and gloves and followed him into the blooming field.

The large wooden boxes before them were Langstroth hives, the bookman explained. The bees build their honeycomb into sliding frames that the beekeeper can remove to inspect the hive. Bloodworth lit a bee smoker, smoked one of the hives, and carefully opened it. “Listen, Watson—can you hear the bees?” The hive was pulsing with life.

Bloodworth pulled a frame from the center of the hive, looking closely at it. “See here,” he said indicating the eggs and brood. “This one has an active queen.” John helped Bloodworth inspect all the hives. Some of the colonies were low on honey, so they inserted pollen patties with feeding syrup. As they closed each hive, Bloodworth dusted the top bars with an antibiotic and powdered sugar to attract the worker bees.

Although John was thoroughly enjoying the chores, his mind strayed to Sherlock. He said he loved this peaceful place. And _how_ he had said it . . .  

The other man watched him keenly. “Holmes is a born beekeeper. He has family property in Sussex, you know.” John didn’t know. “The region is ideal for bee culture. It would not surprise me if the hives someday hold more interest for him than the criminal world of London.”

Bloodworth busied himself with the final hive. “I’m glad that he has a friend in you, Watson, and such a friend. He has more need of you than he will admit.” John ducked his head and began to stammer a reply, but Bloodworth had already doffed his veil and coverall and was well down the path to the cottage, shadowed by Platen.

When twilight fell over the Wye Valley, Bloodworth proposed dinner in town. They ended up at a smart restaurant owned by one of Bloodworth’s friends, on the high street but only a few blocks from Arden. The owner bustled them to a quiet table, and dinner soon appeared: chicken breasts poached in champagne, with rice pilaf and a simple salad of beets and oranges. They spoke easily about John’s locum work and the crowds Bloodworth expected for the Hay Festival in May, but under it all, John detected a certain heaviness. Bloodworth was deeply rattled by the burglary and Straker’s death.

At 8:00, Constable Gregor rang Bloodworth. The autopsy results were in: Straker died of acute toluene poisoning. The pathologist found no indication of force or resistance, no bruising on the face or throat, no defensive wounds on the arms or hands. John sent Sherlock the news by text, not expecting an answer. They were just settling in with dessert and coffee when he heard a message tone. He fumbled with his phone, almost ashamed of his eagerness. It was Sherlock. He had completed his business in London and would be back by 11:00.

10:45 found John pacing near Arden’s front window, eyes glued to the street. Headlights approached. He was out the door and on the pavement before the sedan rolled to a stop.

Sherlock stepped out to meet him. John would be angry. The thought worried Sherlock. He really had spent nearly the entire day at the Diogenes Club, suffering Mycroft’s smugness. The endgame, however, had included a brief but touchy encounter with a demented bookie. He was small fry—not the man at the center of the sprawling operation—but he left his mark. Evidence of the struggle was written on Sherlock’s face in a small abrasion under his left eye. He did not lie to John. He was never in danger, not really, not with a bevy of Mycroft’s men backing him up—but John would be angry.

“You prat, what is this?” John asked, seizing Sherlock by the chin and angling him to catch the light from the shop.

Uncertainty flitted across Sherlock’s face. The expression looked ill at ease there, like an actor stumbling onto the wrong stage. “Well. There was a bit of legwork—a very small bit, you know how lazy Mycroft is—and so I . . .”

Their eyes caught.

And John was laughing—he was _laughing._ Sherlock could never expect to deduce his next move, underwritten as it was by a sublime symphony of subtle and shifting emotions. John was magnificent. The mind palace was too small to hold him. Sherlock’s face split nearly in two with the joy of _not knowing,_ and he heard himself joining in the laughter.

As the black sedan glided into the night, Constable Gregor’s panda car pulled up. She emerged, looking baffled. Bloodworth came outside, stopping a few steps from the helplessly giggling pair. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were soft. John was the first to collect himself.

“He phoned a few minutes ago,” she explained, gesturing at Sherlock, “to ask me to meet you here. Mr. Holmes, I suppose it’s not worth inquiring what you did today.”

Sherlock suddenly sobered. “I cooperated with the British government, in the person of my brother,” he spat, “to dismantle an illegal gambling operation with fingers all over the United Kingdom.”

Constable Gregor allowed that it sounded like a day well spent.

“Constable, we need to search Simpson’s shop again. Now, if you please. It’s important.”

Ten minutes later, a young officer met them, holding keys to Simpson’s shop. She remained on guard while the four stepped inside. The bleach smell was much fainter now, but still discernible in the air. Sherlock rapidly surveyed the walls and floor of the shop, then turned to John. “John, I need you to tell us everything you know about toluene.”

John gathered his thoughts for a moment. “Toluene is an aromatic hydrocarbon. Chemically, these compounds are made up of benzene rings formed by alternating double and single bonds between carbon atoms. Toluene is an organic solvent with a distinctive sweet odor. It’s used as a thinner in commercial paints and glues, and also undiluted in industrial and other specialized applications—including, evidently,” he gestured around the store, “bookbinding and conservation.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock urged him on impatiently. “What about its toxicity?”

“Well, it’s highly toxic—it can cause severe neurological damage when inhaled. But inhalant users still seek it out, because it is a powerful intoxicant.”

“What precautions would a legitimate user take to avoid inhaling the fumes?”

“A respirator would be the best idea, but they can be bulky and uncomfortable.” John considered. “A charcoal-lined mask would be okay—or at minimum, a well-ventilated room.”

Bloodworth snorted. “I’ve never seen a respirator or mask used in the book world. But then, the projects are usually quite small—not a whole day spent lingering in the fumes. Of course, you’d throw open the windows and take frequent breaks.”

“What conditions might amplify toluene’s effects?” Sherlock’s eyes were locked on John’s.

“Asthma is a major aggravating factor. Anything that makes an individual breathe heavily, in fact, like physical exertion, would cause him to inhale more of the fumes more rapidly. Also, toluene fumes are quite heavy—heavier than air—so they accumulate near the floor, which can be dangerous.”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock purred.

He froze for a moment, hands pressed together, as he scanned the room. Dropping to his knees, he began to crawl, face lowered nearly to the floor. His path took him to the door, then he snuffled past the constable’s feet, moving toward the workbench. He was under the bench when he abruptly stopped, sniffing feverishly.

“Here!” He indicated an area of floor near the center of the workbench. John joined him, crouching. At floor level, he smelled it—toluene. There was a patch of toluene residue under the bench.

The constable and Bloodworth were both on their hands and knees by now, but Sherlock was already whirling across the room. “The book is in this shop—it has to be right here. Search the bookshelves!”

Simpson had a limited number of books and writing journals for sale, artistically displayed along the shop’s left and right walls. They set to work. Constable Gregor was the one who found it: _Bronze Blaze,_ with the frayed red binding turned to the wall and the page edges facing out, was resting unobtrusively on a low shelf to the right of the workbench.

Relief bloomed across Bloodworth’s features. He accepted the book reverently and laid it open on the bench.

“No!” he moaned. He quickly took stock. “Holmes, four photographs are missing.” He showed them the stripped pages at the front of the book.

“Bloodworth, where would you store loose illustrations if you were Simpson?” Sherlock prompted.

“In my flat files!” Bloodworth crowed.

The bookman fell to his knees in front of a floor-to-ceiling cabinet with dozens of wide, shallow drawers, and began to search one after another. Sherlock pulled over a stepladder and rifled through the top drawers.

Bloodworth was in the fifth drawer. “Here. They’re right here.” He turned. He was delicately holding between the tips of his fingers an ethereal image of an amber thoroughbred cantering out of a spray of pearly morning mist. “They’re here,” he repeated, his eyes gleaming.

Sherlock was back at the workbench, smiling broadly at the happy man. He ran his fingers across _Bronze Blaze’_ s undamaged pages, marred only by a bit of dried adhesive where the photographs had been expertly removed.

“This is fantastic,” he said, flipping through the bare pages.

Bloodworth ruefully examined the loose photographs, his mind darting ahead to the restoration process. “It is?”

“Yes.”


	5. Lasurier

“9:00 a.m.! The woman is a perfect imbecile!”

Sherlock fell sprawling on the bed, then immediately curled into a compact ball. He was sulking for England, John thought. “Hay is a small village,” he reasoned with the petulant detective. “It doesn’t surprise me that the evidence room at the Hay-on-Wye police station is closed overnight.”

“Eight hours!” he moaned. “What are we to do for eight hours?”

“Simpson is in custody, and now the police have _Bronze Blaze._ I for one plan to take Evelyn’s suggestion that we get some sleep. When was the last time you slept, Sherlock? Was it the night we arrived—for a couple of hours?”

Sherlock hissed and twisted away, pointedly. With a sigh, John began to change into pajamas. When he looked up, Sherlock was watching him through one half-open eye. “Right then,” John said. He grabbed a pile of pillows and settled against the headboard. “Walk me through the evidence we’ll be reviewing. How about the things Straker had in his pockets?”

Sherlock brightened. “I have photocopies of his receipts right here.” Soon he was lounging next to John, dealing out a substantial stack of papers. John reached across him for the first of the receipts. As he studied the pages, Sherlock leaned in, reading over his shoulder, and began to weave a story around each purchase, each stop, each encounter in Straker’s last days.

“Here’s a large one,” John remarked with a yawn. “More than £500. What is Lasurier?”

Sherlock hummed, his baritone narration lulling John into deeper rest.

***

“This is fantastic.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

Constable Gregor broke in. “It certainly is. The book is here in Simpson’s shop. And now we also have evidence—beyond the blue rag that matches the supply in his bench—that Simpson used toluene in this room. Mr. Holmes, I am very impressed. We have solid grounds for charging Simpson with both burglary and homicide.”

John looked up, a small frown creasing his brow. “What about the man we chased?”

The constable smiled. “He’s long gone, John, and I believe the only thing he stole was the photo card. I’m ready to write him off as a trespasser who saw the open door and got caught inside. He clearly didn’t find much of interest in Bloodworth’s store. He didn’t even tamper with the cash register.”

Bloodworth sighed. He looked unconvinced, but he finally said, “I’m inclined to agree. There’s ample cause to think Simpson is the man responsible.”  
  
Sherlock’s steely eyes met the constable’s. “Not so fast,” he said.

***

Frederick Simpson was no night owl. He had been having a kip on the sofa until 12:30, and now it was nearing 1:00 in the morning. He needed to check the slow bleaching process he was trying on some rare but stained botanical engravings. The chances of salvaging them looked quite good—he had even consulted with James Straker on the bleach solution. As he blearily made his way to the shop, police sirens were wailing. Beastly tourists, staggering about plastered when the pubs closed.

Bloody hell, what’s this? The door was unlocked, standing a bit ajar. Simpson cautiously stepped in and threw on the lights. The smell of bleach permeated the air, but beneath it, something sweet. On the floor under the workbench, he spotted his favorite large lifting knife next to a smaller knife he didn’t recognize, as well as a brush and an empty vial. He picked up the vial: toluene. All lay in a puddle of the powerful solvent. What on earth had happened here?

Snatching a rag, Simpson cleaned his Peachey knife. Good—the polished handle looked unharmed. He dropped it in its usual slot, but his eyes were riveted across the workbench. He now saw, directly above the mess on the floor, Bloodworth’s priceless book, _Bronze Blaze._ To the side were several of the magnificent photographs, neatly removed.

Simpson moved around the bench, never taking his eyes from the book. He was still clutching the cloth and vial. He shook his head to clear it, then swiftly mopped up the solvent. Dropping the brush and unfamiliar knife in the sink—he could wash them later—he walked the rag and empty bottle directly to the skip out back. The fumes in the shop could down an elephant.

Back in front of the book, afraid even to touch it, Simpson thought for a long moment. What to do? Well. He couldn’t afford to look a gift horse—especially such a thoroughbred—in the mouth. The photographs were radiant, something truly special. Bloodworth was a sentimental fool with his plans to sell the book intact to the archival market. In the right channels, these beauties would fetch a fortune.

Decision made, Simpson hastily shelved the book spine-in and placed the photos facedown in his flat files. He would deal with both tomorrow. He finally turned to his bleach project. A moment’s inspection showed that the engravings had not yet advanced to the necessary stage—another job for tomorrow morning. He washed his hands, then headed out to rest and think, keeping well away from the drunken commotion.

A large ring of keys stood on the workbench near an empty slot in the knife block, but Frederick Simpson did not see them. Around the corner, James Straker lay on the pavement, his sightless eyes staring at half a dozen of Dyfed-Powys’s finest.

***

“Simpson is indeed responsible,” Sherlock announced, “but he’s no murderer.”

All eyes were on the detective now. He was centimeters taller all at once, John marveled, his face and lean form a study in chiaroscuro. It suited him. John waited for the punch line.

“Straker was the man who broke into Arden and stole _Bronze Blaze,_ and his death was an accident. _The alarm never sounded._ Only Straker had both the key and the alarm code—not Simpson, not the man we chased from the shop. Straker’s body confirmed his death was accidental. The corpse reeked of toluene, but the odor was not concentrated around the nose and mouth.”

Sherlock’s arm swept toward the workbench. “When we found the toluene residue, I knew _Bronze Blaze_ never left this shop—not in Straker’s condition. He abandoned the book and photographs right here, and only minutes later, Simpson found and hid them. Simpson is guilty of theft—an unscrupulous crime of opportunity—but not burglary or homicide.”

John sang out, “Amazing!” Honestly, he felt it—why hold back? They both loved this dance. But Constable Gregor cut in, a bit of chagrin in her voice alongside the admiration. “Well done, Mr. Holmes! Of course, of course, it had to be James Straker. Why else would he have been carrying a headlamp?”

Sherlock tore himself from John’s deep blue eyes, startled at the observation. She smiled. “He must have been planning to work in the dark.”

Warm and comfortable, John drifted awake to a complicated citrus smell. It was Sherlock’s hair. John wet his head whenever he got in the shower—would even scrub his hair with bar soap in a pinch—but Sherlock shampooed only a few times a week in a continual but covert battle with the curls. John had seen his poncy lime-basil and mandarin conditioner and Truefitt & Hill pomade in the bathroom. And now those lime-scented locks were corkscrewing wildly around John’s nose.

John considered the situation. The receipts were neatly stacked on the table beside the bed. A light down blanket covered them to the waist. Sherlock was tucked close, breathing evenly, wearing a silky t-shirt turned inside out. His left hand was folded against John’s chest, and the right held a handful of his shirt. John simply didn’t feel much impulse to move. He stroked his left thumb up and down where it rested on Sherlock’s back.

“I’ve been revisiting the facts concerning Straker’s toluene intoxication,” Sherlock said quietly, with a small yawn. He tightened his hand in John’s t-shirt. “What do you think would be the effect of panic? Imagine that Straker rushed to Simpson’s shop, quite apprehensive, even frightened.”

“That would be a perfect storm of risk factors for Straker, with his severe asthma—especially if the panic and running set off an asthma attack. If he were distracted or had his hands full, he might not use his ipratropium. Come to think of it,” John mused, “he probably left his keys behind on the workbench because his hands were full.”

He lowered his face into Sherlock’s curls, just for a moment, then continued. “Straker surely had experience using toluene, but working on the floor, with poor air circulation under the bench—I bet he was in trouble before he knew it.” A small delighted sound came from Sherlock. “But I still don’t see it,” John said, rolling his head. “Straker had a successful business with the local bookshops. Why would he risk it? And why take the book to Simpson’s?”

“Wait a second.” Understanding inched up on John. “It has to do with your trip to London, doesn’t it? Tell me,” he ordered, sitting up.

***

Sherlock was hopping with impatience at 8:55, when they arrived outside the evidence room of the Hay-on-Wye police station. Constable Gregor strolled up promptly at 9:00 a.m., with Bloodworth in tow. “I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to know that Frederick Simpson has confessed and fully described his role in the theft of _Bronze Blaze_ _,_ ” the constable declared. “The evidence room will photograph the book later this morning, and then Mr. Bloodworth is free to claim it.”

While Bloodworth shook her hand and thanked her, an officer unlocked the evidence room and led them to a conference room inside. _Bronze Blaze_ and the loose photographs were arranged on the table, along with the carte de visite and contents of Straker’s pockets. The Peachey paring knife had been joined by a second, much smaller knife and an acrylic brush.

“You were very insistent last night, Mr. Holmes.” John lifted his eyes to heaven, and the constable chuckled. “Insistent that there is more to know about the burglary and Mr. Straker’s death. You said the evidence will tell the story.” She handed him a box of gloves.

After pulling on a pair of the blue gloves, Sherlock reached for Straker’s phone. “The missed calls are also of interest, but I’d like you to have a look at this.” He opened a racing stats application. “This is one of three similar horse racing apps he had loaded,” he observed, passing around the phone.

Bloodworth and John waited for Sherlock to explain, but Constable Gregor was staring into space, already deep in thought. Her eyes narrowed. “Is it possible Straker had a gambling problem?” Her eyes rested on the small knife as her mind continued to turn.


	6. Fibonacci

“We’re ready to release this item, as well, Mr. Bloodworth. You can claim it later today.” Constable Gregor was preparing to call an officer to collect Bloodworth’s property for photographing.

“You’re very kind, Constable, but I’m quite sure it isn’t mine,” Bloodworth said firmly, frowning at the carte de visite.

Sherlock plucked the card off the table. “But Bloodworth,” he commented lightly, “it’s a real curiosity, isn’t it?” Bloodworth looked at him, bewildered. Sherlock prodded a bit. “Do you think there are many such cartes of a famous horse like Bronze Blaze?”

Still at a loss, Bloodworth ventured, “The cards were available at tracks and betting shops, and owners and training barns also distributed them to promote their horses. Racing fans collected them. I’m aware of two different views of Bronze Blaze: a head profile and this full-length shot. Both versions circulated widely through the 1890s.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gave Bloodworth a sidelong smile as he reached for _Bronze Blaze._ He laid the little photograph with its penciled numbers below the carte de visite on the book’s cover. They were identical. Then he opened the book to the first page, tightly lined with crabbed writing. “Look here,” he said, aligning the carte with a string of penciled numbers: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144. The handwriting and the numbers matched.

“The carte must have belonged to Ives,” Bloodworth stammered. “But Holmes, what can it mean?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, pressing his hands together, and began to weave a tale of Frederic Eugene Ives. The American was celebrated in London as an inventor, but he quickly earned another kind of renown in English society as a gambler. Horse racing was his passion, and his wagers far exceeded the expected odds. Word spread through the racing world that Ives had developed an unbeatable staking system—a plan for laying bets that yielded his dramatic wins at the track.

“I believe,” Sherlock concluded, “that Ives purchased access to Bronze Blaze for his photography project through a barter with the horse’s owner. He jotted down his staking scheme—based on the Fibonacci sequence—on the owner’s carte de visite. This is that carte.”

“Remarkable,” Bloodworth breathed. “Then the book’s text may be an admixture of photographic innovations and Victorian game theory—and the carte is the key. The scholarly importance of this set of print objects is unparalleled!”

“I don’t doubt it,” the constable said, “but what can it have to do with the burglary?”

Sherlock barked, “How you’ve risen to your present position is—” John’s foot caught him hard on the shin, and Sherlock bent to rub at the injury with a discontented moue. “Don’t you see? It was the claim ticket.”

John had learned that morning how Sherlock helped dispatch Lasurier Stakes, a gambling ring based in London that had been a thorn in Mycroft Holmes’s side for years. Always operating at the edge of legality, Lasurier evaded prosecution, and Sherlock had refused to get involved. But Straker had been carrying a Lasurier receipt for £535—hardly a casual bet. Sherlock agreed to cooperate with Mycroft in exchange for information about the conservator. In turn, possible evidence of the organization’s traffic in stolen goods gave Mycroft enough to go after Adrian Lasurier, a shadowy figure he wanted to question for far more serious offenses.

Adrian Lasurier was now safely in custody. The London betting shop’s books showed Straker’s fatal debt of £280,000. The conservator had been in the red for years, and the scale of his losses had finally attracted the personal attention of Mr. Lasurier. The time had come for Straker to settle up.

“The man we chased that morning was no simple trespasser,” Sherlock declared. “He was Lasurier’s agent, sent to collect the book and determined to find it. The meeting with Straker was set for 12:30, during the pubs’ closing rush, when people would be on the streets and police attention focused elsewhere. But Straker never turned up.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Constable Gregor mused. “He must have been just leaving Simpson’s shop at 12:30. But I don’t see why he tried to remove the photos that night. Why not just hand over the book?”

Bloodworth shook his head grimly. “The intact book would have been considerably more difficult to sell, Constable, especially once news of the theft closed all legitimate channels. Unscrupulous collectors would rather buy the individual photos—easier to disguise the provenance.” He thought for moment. “Even so, they’d need Straker’s connections to get a good price. The London bookie would have been hard pressed to sell the photos at all.”

Sherlock nodded across the table at the bookman. “Quite right, Bloodworth. There’s just one more thing.”

Lasurier’s books had indicated half payment of Straker’s debt alongside the 12:30 meeting. “I only realized why last night,” Sherlock admitted, “when we discovered the photos so meticulously removed. Lasurier agreed to accept the text of _Bronze Blaze_ in partial payment—so the pages needed to remain unblemished. Straker would pay off the balance of the debt by selling the loose photographs.”

Not for the first time that morning, the constable’s eyes slipped to Straker’s small knife. “The photos were more firmly attached than he expected,” she said quietly. She looked at Sherlock. “That’s why he went to Simpson’s shop.”

“And the pages alone were worth £140,000 to Lasurier?” John asked.

Sherlock met his eyes. “It wasn’t scholarly curiosity or an interest in Victorian photography that motivated Adrian Lasurier. According to a century-old rumor in the racing world, Ives’s missing work contained a powerful secret staking system. Lasurier wanted to control it.”

Sherlock stood and pulled on his coat. “He would have been sorely disappointed. It was no doubt new in 1892, but the Fibonacci scheme is an old chestnut now, a house of cards. The text’s only value is to scholars. Frederic Eugene Ives merely had luck on his side—and a good eye for horseflesh.”

***

John was standing with Constable Gregor in a beam of midday sun, the golden warmth setting his hair alight. They were near the police station’s main door, talking, _laughing._ Once she reached out a freckled hand and squeezed his forearm. Now they were exchanging email addresses. How long might the well-wishing drag on? Sherlock gritted his teeth and checked his messages.

Minutes later, they finally parted. Sherlock, John, and Bloodworth were walking to a nearby café for lunch, which Bloodworth insisted would be his treat. “Evelyn is an excellent officer,” John remarked. She was not an idiot, Sherlock was forced to admit, but privately, he rather thought she lacked imagination. And she was unreasonably chummy with John.

Evelyn Gregor was in her garden. She had the rest of the day off, and the next as well, and she meant to make the most of it. After a weekend in Sherlock Holmes’s company, she was bloody tired of thinking. John Watson was a doctor, a soldier, and maybe a saint; she would send him an email in a few months to see how the detective and his defender were faring. Tugging on her gardening gloves with a smile, she started dividing the sprouted dahlia tubers.

***

Late that afternoon, Bloodworth was once again in possession of _Bronze Blaze_ —and determined to see the book safely in his vault before sundown. The wind was picking up as they approached Arden’s burgundy door. Bloodworth nodded toward the window display as he let them in. “My friends in the Hay & District Chamber of Commerce have been concerned,” he said, pulling out his phone. They watched him delete a row of messages. “I’ll leave them a reply.”

As Bloodworth hurried to the vault, John and Sherlock climbed the stairs to the second level, which John had not yet explored. Sherlock settled in a worn leather club chair flanked by a collection of recondite botanical reference works. A high, dusty window cast light over a roughly drawn skeleton painstakingly labeled by an Edwardian medical student. The long sheet of yellowed paper ran nearly to the top of the shelves devoted to human anatomy. John chose an early edition of Henry Gray’s _Anatomy,_ the leather binding soft at the corners but firm. The book had been treasured by some long-ago physician, just as he had relied on his own less distinguished copy. For Sherlock, there was a cultural history of autopsy and dissection in England.

After thirty minutes, Bloodworth called from below. “I’ve set aside two boxes of books for Holmes in the office. Would you mind bringing them down?” They trundled down the stairs, each carrying a heavy carton with a few additional volumes balanced on top. Spread across the sales counter was a long strip of red paper lettered with poster paint, nearly dry. Bloodworth was rustling under the counter, stowing the art supplies near the Kromskop. He emerged with a crooked grin. “Before your visit next year, Watson, I plan to expand my collection of Kromskop slides. I noticed you’re quite fond of the device.” With that, the older man climbed nimbly into the shop window and hung the red streamer. John gaped after him, but Sherlock merely leaned close and whispered, “You’re invited.”

It was the second invitation of the afternoon. John and Sherlock had checked out of the inn; they would spend the night at Bloodworth’s cottage before returning to London. When they left Arden a few minutes later, laden with books, John turned to admire the window display. Slung across a poster-sized enlargement of Bronze Blaze, the new banner proclaimed “Found!”

***

Wind buffeted the cottage all night, but the morning dawned bright and calm. When John came into the kitchen, Sherlock and Bloodworth were already drinking tea and discussing new research on microbial diversity. Bloodworth had a fry-up sizzling on the stove. John sat down with a cup of Earl Grey. “Watson, will you have the full monty?” Bloodworth asked. John and Bloodworth were soon tucking into heaping plates of poached eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, tomato, mushrooms, and toast. Sherlock celebrated the case’s successful conclusion with two rashers and baked beans on toast.

“I’ve closed the shop today,” Bloodworth said. “Now that _Bronze Blaze_ is back in the running, I need to prepare for meetings with potential buyers. A highly recommended young conservator from Gloucester will visit tomorrow to reassemble the book.”

“What sorts of buyers have contacted you?” Sherlock was polishing off the last of his bacon.

“I turned away several private collectors. Their interest was legitimate,” Bloodworth acknowledged, “but I’d prefer to see _Bronze Blaze_ in a research library or archive, even if the selling price is lower. St. John’s College at Cambridge has a major photography collection. I’ll also be meeting with the U.S. Library of Congress, where Frederic Eugene Ives’s papers are held.”

“What about the carte de visite?” John wondered.

Bloodworth sighed. “I suspect the carte’s ownership will be much in dispute. But Constable Gregor has agreed to provide a photographic reproduction, and I’ll prepare a full bibliographical description for _Bronze Blaze’_ s new owner.”

The sun was shining across the table by the time they stood. Bloodworth carried the plates into the kitchen and started washing up; John joined him, grabbing a tea towel. Sherlock was ferrying the cartons of books from the front room to the dining table. Bloodworth drained the dishwater. “We’re done here, Holmes. The wind was very high last night. I’d be grateful if you and Watson would walk out to the apiary to make sure the hives’ lids are in place.”

Sherlock glanced sharply at him. “What an absurd notion.”                                                                                                 

“Quite so, Holmes. Please do go out and check the hives,” he repeated unperturbed, before turning his attention to the boxes of books.

The warm morning sun had already dried the path to the bee yard. Platen capered wild circles around them, taking periodic detours into the clover. John spied the hives ahead. “Looks like everything is in order out here.”

Sherlock snorted. “Langstroth hives have custom-fitted double lids. It would take a hurricane to dislodge them.” John looked up, surprised, then something more gentle crossed his face. Sherlock froze for a moment, trying to read the expression. He recovered quickly. “This trail leads to an overlook with an impressive view of the Wye Valley—Bloodworth is justifiably proud of it. Would you like to see it?”

They continued down the path, winding through blooming meadows and finally entering a small, shady wood. The trees parted, and they were on the crest of a hill, high over the Wye Valley. Below them, the River Wye curved through forests and green fields; far in the distance was Hereford cathedral. They stood for a time in comfortable silence. John raised his face to the sun and pulled in a deep breath of the keen air.

“Lovely,” Sherlock whispered. His head was bent in John’s direction. Startled by the unaccustomed word, John turned. Sherlock was breathing fast, a light flush coloring his cheeks. John felt the crystalline calm he knew in Afghanistan in the moments before an engagement. This was happening. The upheaval that shook him after Dartmoor, the tremor of doubt had passed. He stepped closer.

Slowly, steadily, he lifted his right hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock licked his lower lip and inclined his head infinitesimally toward the touch. His almond eyes were uncanny, all their focus trained on John. John’s left hand rose to the tender skin under Sherlock’s jaw, where the pulse bounded. His fingers lingered, stroking, then he pulled his thumb down to the lush lower lip. Sherlock’s eyes flickered shut as the thumb drew across his mouth and around to the deep bow on his upper lip. He softly kissed the pad, then parted his lips around the fingertip.

Sliding his hand into Sherlock’s curls, John urged him the last tiny interval forward. Their lips met around John’s thumb, as John brushed small kisses to the side and above. Sherlock suckled gently, reluctant to let it go, but John traced a damp line to his jaw, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. When Sherlock opened to him, John tasted tea and salt as he stroked his tongue across the hidden skin. With a glancing kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, he slowly pulled back, waiting for him to speak, to look up. Sherlock’s eyes were jerking hectically behind closed lids. “Sherlock,” John breathed, suddenly afraid. “Do you want this?” Then Sherlock was speaking, his darkened eyes dragging open. John couldn’t quite catch the words, the low litany tumbling from his lips. He pressed his ear closer. It was “yes, yes, yes, yes.”

Nearly an hour passed before they returned to the apiary. Platen had given up on them; she was asleep in a patch of sun near the garden shed. Sherlock rolled down the sleeves of his white shirt, buttoning them at the wrist. Bypassing the coveralls and gloves, he put on a mesh veil. In the shed, Sherlock found the bee smoker and a slim, long-handled wooden spoon with a small bowl, polished with decades of use.

“We really should check the hives, John, since Bloodworth is so worried,” he said impishly. “If you stay over here, there’s no need to suit up.”

Sherlock walked the short distance to the hives. He smoked one thoroughly, then opened it and set aside the lid. Sliding a frame from the center, he angled it into the sun to inspect the bee activity. From across the field, John could see that the bees had expanded their honeycomb. Sherlock propped a corner of the frame against the hive. Keeping his hands well clear, he pressed the back of the long-handled spoon against the comb; a cloud of bees rose into the air. He deftly twisted the spoon and withdrew it, closing the hive.

He came to John with a smile lighting his face and a spoonful of fresh honey. Removing his veil, he offered the spoon. The clover honey was the product of hard work and patience. It was warm and alive. The sweetness erupted with brassy sparks on John’s tongue.

“Come, John,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go and see Bloodworth’s books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and comments—I appreciate every one. This has been a fun ride. Regarding future installments: As it turns out, I have only 100 words to say about Reichenbach. Part 2 in the Bibliophilia series is [Grief](http://archiveofourown.org/works/775369), a hiatus drabble (posted). Additional cases in the series will be set in S3.


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